


Christmas in Paradise

by a_windsor



Series: Exile [11]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 22:01:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9092407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_windsor/pseuds/a_windsor
Summary: Christmas on their Paradise Island is a little different, but totally them. (4ish years post Survivors)Beta'd by the awesome Ninayasmijn. Thank you!





	

“Did- was that an elf that just jumped off the stairs behind you?” Laurel asks, craning her neck as if that will help her see through the webcam and Sara.

Sara looks over her shoulder then grins back at the image of her sister.

“That would be your youngest niece, who is obsessed with both Christmas, and flying.”

“Fun!” Laurel says. “Is she ok?”

Sara shrugs. “Probably.”

“Parenting, League of Assassins-style.”

“Jumping off the stairs is, like, the safest thing she has done this morning.”

“While dressed as an elf in 75 degree weather,” Laurel notes.

“Yeah, I keep telling her she has more of a Link vibe than Santa’s Helper, but she refuses to wear the jingle bells. It cramps her ‘sneaking up on people’ style.”

“Very safe in a house full of armed assassins,” Laurel says.

“Soraya,” Sara calls over her shoulder. “Come say hi to-“

“Hi, Aunt Laurel,” five-year-old Soraya pops into view.

Laurel jumps back in surprise. “Hey kiddo. Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!”

A voice calls from behind them, and the dark-haired little girl quickly pushes the cap down over her eyes goofily.

“Gotta go, Aunt Laurel,” she says. “Training time!”

“Bye So’,” Laurel calls after her.

“We’ll call on Christmas Day,” Sara assures her. “And I’ll have Mom tell you when she gets here safely. Kiss those babies for me!”

“Will do,” Laurel says, but Sara’s already ended the call.

 

***

 

“Are you to train in that outfit, _Al Ameerah_?”           

“If you have no objections, _Mama_ ,” Soraya says, walking the line between respectful and cheeky surprisingly well for a five-year-old.

Nyssa pauses, hands behind her back, surveying their daughter.

“Carry on.”

“Merry Christmas.”

Sara tries not to laugh. Beside her, Sar’ab and Damian fight the same battle. Talibah and Azra are stone-faced. Outwardly.

Nyssa continues her inspection, raising a brow at Sara in her only acknowledgment of their youngest’s silliness. Sara hides her smile.

“Al Ameerah, with Talibah. Sar’ab, Al Thill. Faris, Taer al-Asfer.”

Sara wonders if this, pairing her with their thirteen-year-old, is a peace offering. Damian accompanied Fahd al-Rasadat and Nyssa on his first official mission just two weeks ago. Damian has totally avoided talking to Sara about it, and, most frustratingly, so has Nyssa.

 _“It is not mine to tell,”_ Nyssa keeps saying. Infuriatingly.

Despite the quite comfy Christmas temperatures on Paradise Island, things are a little frosty between the Heir and her Beloved.

“You train with me, you train with the bo,” Sara informs the boy, tapping him on the back of the knee with her weapon of choice.

Damian sighs dramatically but gives her the hint of a smile he jogs off to the weapons rack, playfully catching one of Azra’s dull-tipped arrows from the air and tossing it back at her.

“Damian!” the seven-year-old complains, ducking the arrow.

“Azra!” he mimics back.

Sara studies him intently. He seems completely _normal_ around everyone but her, like he wasn’t sent into the field to hunt and kill a criminal at his Khala’s side. He was there as observer, not weapon, but he was involved in every aspect of the mission.

Sara believes in the cause. She is _Iradat al Ghul_ , and she has taken more than her fair share of lives, as many since Damian’s birth as before. She has always known that Damian would one day do the same, just as Azra and Soraya likely will. And she thought she had made peace with that. Turns out, not so much, when faced with the reality of her sweet little boy staring death in the face.

And refusing to talk to her about it.

Ho ho ho.

“Habibti?” his tentative voice refocuses her.

She does have to smile at that. These days he’s more likely to use the more “adult”, vaguely annoyed _Mom_ , so his childhood endearment for her is refreshing.

“Eager for me to kick your ass, huh?”

“There are _children_ around,” Damian tsks, faux-offended.

“Like that’s ever stopped me.”

Damian laughs, and Sara loves this, the banter, but hates how the second she brings up Marrakech, he will shut down completely.

 

***

 

It’s quiet. Nyssa looks up from the latest field reports. She glances beside her, where Azra, with Jelly in her lap, pores over the reports Nyssa has already finished, adding her own, surprisingly insightful annotations. The girl’s wild curls are tamed into short twin braids, little brow furrowed with thought. Nyssa smiles at her and brushes a flyaway behind her ear, enjoying the peace and quiet.

Too quiet.

There are no Jingle Bells, no pop crooning, no slightly off-key renditions of tired carols.

“Where is your sister?”

Azra points to the rafters without even looking up from her reading.

“Dang it,” Soraya sighs, literally hanging from her knees, hair asunder. _Rocket_ somehow lays primly beside her.

“She sneaked in the window five minutes ago,” Azra informs, a bit of reproach in her voice. Fairly given- Soraya is very good at all the sneaking, but _the dog_ Nyssa should have noticed.

“Can you help me, Mama?” Soraya asks sweetly, face tinged a little pink in the cheeks from the blood rushing to her head.

“You got yourself up there, _ya binti_. You can get yourself down.”

“But… _Sarookh_. She’s scared.”

Nyssa sighs. Rocket does not look scared, but it probably would be difficult for the small dog to extricate herself.

“Very well - hand me Sarookh.”

Soraya pulls herself up enough to scoop up Rocket and deposit her into Nyssa’s arms.

“Thanks, Mama.”

“You’re very welcome. You can return to the ground yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Soraya salutes.

Nyssa puts Rocket on the ground and the dog runs off, likely in search of Sara.

“And do come down quickly, Soraya. Your grandmother should be here any minute.”

“Ooh, Grandma,” Soraya grins, reaching up and grabbing the rafter beam with both hands, shimmying over to the leather sofa against one wall of the study. She drops easily onto the soft surface, barely fazing Butter, who occupies one cushion. “Gotta go get my hat.”

“Of course you do,” Nyssa sighs fondly.

Soraya pops over to her sister and kisses her cheek. Azra grumbles but smiles, and Soraya makes her way to Nyssa, giving her leg a quick squeeze.

“Thanks for saving Rocket.”

“You’re welcome. Perhaps you should not involve her so much in your climbing.”

“Nah! She likes it,” Soraya assures on her way out the door.

Once again, peace and quiet descends.

“Run, run, Rudolph!” comes drifting down the hall.

Ah yes, there it is.

Behind Nyssa, Azra sighs, but soon begins to hum along under her breath.

 

***

 

Dinah sips at her tea and smiles, listening to Soraya pick out the notes of the melody to Greensleeves on the piano. Last Christmas, when they had all attended Christmas Eve Mass with Cisco’s family, they literally lost Soraya inside the vast organ at the church, so fascinated was she by the instrument. When they returned, their other grandfather delivered a baby grand and a piano master, so both girls are learning. Azra picked up the basics quickly, as she always does, but it is Soraya who still shows a fascination with the instrument, hence Dinah’s morning serenade.

It’s been six months since Dinah saw her grandchildren. In that time, Damian and Azra have each grown a foot (Soraya only a few inches). Damian is as tall as Sara, all knees and elbows and great affront that his tiny youngest sister can occasionally get him into a headlock. (Pride, too.)

At the piano, and conked out asleep in Nyssa’s arms, are the only times Dinah has seen Soraya still in the just under twenty-four hours she has been here. Dinah is used to the energetic motion, though. Sara had trouble sitting still as a child, and between Vivi and Amelia, one of the twins is always moving. Soraya does bring it to another level though - literally. She’ll climb anything, including her mothers.

“‘Morning, Gran,” Damian greets, sitting beside her with a plate of eggs. He yawns and runs a hand through his messy hair.

“Good morning. Sleep okay?”

Damian nods, mouth already stuffed.

“Your sister’s getting pretty good,” she notes.

“Yeah,” Damian admits. He wags his fingers. “She’s gotta grow a little more, though.”

Dinah laughs as Soraya proves the point, the melody pausing as she reaches for a distant key.

“Good morning, Azzy,” Damian greets, and Dinah looks over her shoulder to see Azra carrying out her own plate, followed by the woman they call Umm Saleem.

Umm Saleem says something to the children in either Arabic or Pashto.

“I dunno, Gran’s been here longer than me,” Damian answers. “Grandma, Umm Saleem asked how many times Soraya has played that song?”

“Oh, I lost count long ago,” Dinah laughs.

Azra slides in beside Dinah, putting a book down beside her plate. Dinah tries to sneak a peek at the title, but it is in one of the Chinese scripts. Dinah has always considered herself smart, very smart, but spending time around her grandchildren always humbles her. Even “easily distracted by the nearest shiny object” Soraya has a command of more languages that Dinah can fathom. Dinah’s languages are all very old, very dead, and very Western.

Umm Saleem says something else. She seems to understand everything just fine when the children speak to Dinah and each other in English, but she hasn’t spoken a word of it, in all the years Dinah has known her.

“She says she does like Greensleeves better than Jingle Bells,” Azra translates.

Dinah laughs.

“I can _hear_ you, know,” Soraya calls over, hands abruptly leaving the keys.

“You’re doing beautifully,” Dinah assures her. “Keep playing.”

“Hey, ‘Raya,” Damian calls over. “Do you know a song called Far Far Away?”

Azra and Umm Saleem laugh. Damian ducks a book of sheet music.

 

***

 

Damian’s walked in on their arguments before: his moms are both a _little_ hotheaded, so the fights tend to happen, and they tend to be on the louder end of things. It doesn’t usually bother him - they fight loud but clean and are usually back to being gross in no time.

This time, though, they’re fighting about _him_.

That’s not a great feeling.

He’d been looking for Azra, and Khala’s study is usually a good bet. Khala’s study, however, is occupied by Khala and Habibti, their voices low but obviously fighting.

Great. Quiet fighting. Even better.

He shrugs off their questions, wanting to get out of there, ASAP.

“Just looking for Az - it’s cookie time.”

“She is assisting Samar in the laundry,” Khala tells him.

“Right,” Damian backs his way out of the door. “Tuesday.”

He makes a break for it.

He catches up with the elder of his sisters outside the laundry room.

“Cookie time?” she asks, grey eyes alight with the prospect.

“Yep, and ‘Raya says if you’re not there in five minutes, she’s doing the measuring.”

“But measuring’s my favorite part. Baking is like chemistry but you can-“

“Eat it, yeah, I know,” Damian says fondly. Azra is what his mom calls a _nerd,_ but it’s pretty cool how her brain works, and the fun facts are way less annoying than constantly being climbed like a tree, as their sister is prone to do. “So we better hurry. I’m sure Marwa can stand up to _Al Ameerah_ , though.”

Azra nods, and Damian grabs the Santa hat from his back pocket and plops it on the seven-year-old’s head. She yanks it off and throws it back at his chest with a peeved look.

Damian laughs as he catches it.

“It’s this or reindeer antlers, kid. I thought I was doing you a favor.”

“Soraya?”

“It _is_ almost Christmas.”

Azra nods and takes the hat back, pulling it back on begrudgingly. Damian takes out the reindeer antlers for himself, and Azra grins at how goofy he must look.

“You’re a good brother.”

“Must be true if you say it; you’re the genius. Race ya to the kitchen?”

“You have an unfair advantage: your legs are 1.65 times longer than mine.”

“Darn. I always knew you’d get smart enough to figure that out. Still, you’re not gonna let something like _advantage_ stop you, are you? You’re League.”

Azra sighs, so much like Khala, and grabs onto her Santa cap with one hand.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

 

***

 

“He’s such a weirdo. He gets that from you.”

The joke breaks the tension, and Nyssa sighs softly in relief. Keeping things from Sara is not in her usual habit. Neither is pissing her off, though she does the latter more regularly.

“Excuse me?” Nyssa objects, keeping her tone purposefully light.

Sara grins a little.

“I’m just saying - only one of us shares DNA with him.”

“I see. It seems highly suspicious that only negative traits are genetic when we have this conversation.”

“Not true! He also has your chin.”

Nyssa chuckles and meets Sara’s eyes. She does not like seeing her Beloved in pain, especially this close to a holiday she values so. It’s simply not her place to give the information Sara desires.

“It is not my intention…”

“I know, I know,” Sara cuts her off, grin turning a little sad. “I should go make sure Soraya doesn’t give Rocket too much cookie dough.”

“Of course. Not to eat dough yourself.”

Sara’s eyes flash, and to Nyssa’s delight, she presses an unexpected kiss to her cheek.

“Never.”

“Mark my words - one of you will vomit.”

“Then I hope it’s Rocket.”

 

***

 

Sara _hates_ it when Nyssa is right.

She should have seen it coming. She knows even she doesn’t feel the Christmas spirit fully until she’s queasy on cookie dough herself.

At least she consoles herself that Nyssa will be equally surprised about _who_ the puker is. Sara really did have her money on Rocket.

It’s Azra, though, that she sees turn a little green in the gills. Thankfully, she’s able to grab her and hustle her out of the flour-covered kitchen before the explosion, which is probably the most sanitary outcome. The kitchen opens into the interior patio, and Sara manages to direct Azra towards a potted plant, which takes the brunt of the cookie dough overdose.

She rubs her girl’s back softly as she empties her stomach. Thankfully, her hair is already neatly tied back as a baking precaution, so Sara holds her lightly around the waist with her other arm. After three kids and half a lifetime in the League, puke _really_ doesn’t faze her.

The convulsive explosion seems to abate, so Sara helps Azra stand up straight and strip off her little apron, wiping her mouth with it. Azra’s eyes are wet, and Sara brushes a hand tenderly across her brow.

“Feel better now, kiddo?”

Azra nods miserably.

“I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“Hey, no worries,” Sara assures. “It’s not Christmas until somebody pukes.”

Azra cracks a soft smile, which Sara returns warmly. She kisses her forehead.

“Go brush your teeth and wash your face. Marwa and I will scare up some tea.”

“Ginger?”

“Yep. Mama’s special blend.”

“Thanks, Mommy.”

“Of course, Az.”

Rocket has pulled herself away from the prospect of falling dough (which is obviously not as all encompassing as the possibility of runaway meat) long enough to investigate the disturbance outside. She starts sniffing with interest in the vicinity of the potted plant, and Sara scoops her up with a sigh.

“You are so gross.”

Rocket looks up at her with wide eyes that seem to say “Duh, I’m a dog,” and Sara chuckles.

“C’mon. Let’s go make sure there are no more pukers.”

There are not, but somehow Soraya has covered both herself and her grandmother with flour. Sara’s mom is laughing, though, and Marwa and Umm Saleem are bemused.

“ _You are cleaning this kitchen, Al Ameerah_ ,” Marwa instructs Soraya in Pashto, shaking her dough-covered spoon for emphasis.

 _“Yes, ma’am_ ,” Soraya giggles, wiping at her white nose with her sleeve. “Hi, Mommy.”

“Hey, kid. What happened here?”

“An… incident. Is Azzy okay?”

“She will be. An incident, huh?”

“Gran started it.”

“I started it?!” Dinah objects, descending into a retaliatory tickle, which Soraya, still giggling, pretends to evade.

Sara rolls her eyes and looks to Damian, who is still gamely wearing his reindeer antlers and decorating cookies.

“How’d you avoid that?” she asks.

“Grandma’s here to be her favorite toy,” he says dryly. He looks up, giving her a gentle smile. “Wanna help?”

Sara’s heart gives a little flutter, but she stays cool.

“Yeah. Lemme wash my hands first.”

“Oh yeah, gross. Puke _and_ dog.”

“What is with you three puking on me at Christmas?”

Damian laughs.

“Just at Christmas?”

 

***

 

Having been a frequent visitor to this Paradise Island, Dinah is quite familiar with the twice-daily training. The children have individual lessons interspersed throughout the day, academic and otherwise, but twice a day, nearly every… Assassin, in the villa, gathers to train together. Dinah’s just never actually _been_ to the training.

Until now, when her youngest granddaughter batted her big brown eyes and requested her presence while she kicked her big brother’s ass.

(Her words - Sara is an amazing mother, but keeping curse words out of the ears and mouths of her children is not her strongest suit. Nyssa, however, had overheard the word, and at a raise of her eyebrow, Soraya dropped into five adorable pushups with a “Sorry, Mama”.)

So Dinah finds herself at the edge of the mythical training field, leaning against a stone column with Rocket in her arms, as five-year-old Soraya (100% pure muscle under that baby fat) stares her thirteen-year-old brother in the face with utter determination.

She knows, intellectually, what life these children are being raised into, has accepted and embraced it fully (knowing that she would not be allowed such access to them if she did not), but looking into the reality of it is a whole new ballgame.

Nyssa runs the training field, commands every inch of it with her mere presence, but her children and her soldiers do not fear her: they respect her. The commands are spoken in Arabic, which Dinah is embarrassed to admit she did not pick up as easily as she planned when Damian came into their lives.

And Soraya, wild, boisterous, ridiculous Soraya, is the picture of focus and calm. Which is almost unsettling.

Damian towers over her. His gawky adolescent reach must be at least twice hers. Dinah imagines he intends to take it easy on her.

He does not.

At Nyssa’s command, he swings his staff such that it slams, hard, into her hip. Soraya grunts, and Dinah winces. There was no malice in Damian’s actions, but it is hard to witness nonetheless. Soraya swings back, and Damian deflects the blow so hard that Soraya falls back to the grass.

She should have followed Sara’s advice and bowed out of this invitation. She can’t admit that now, though, so she ignores her daughter’s concerned gaze and focuses her attention on steady, thoughtful Azra, who stands next to Nyssa, hands at the small of her back, intently watching the match. Azra’s calm centers her, and Dinah takes a deep breath and refocuses on Damian and Soraya. Despite the imbalance, they will not hurt each other. This is not so different from Stella’s tae kwon do meets.

Her grandchildren exchange a few more staff blows, dancing around each other in mirrored stances, Soraya’s chubby hands occasionally slipping on the wood. She gets in a few good hits, though, and he even yelps in surprise when she catches him good in the ear. He grins at her approvingly after that.

They move up and down the field, and at one point, near the rack of practice swords, Soraya whips her staff around and gets D on the hand, causing him to wince and readjust his grip. As he does, to Dinah’s astonishment, Soraya clambers up the sword rack and throws herself off of it, catching Damian in the chest with her knees and slamming him into the ground. She’s so light that once Damian catches his breath, Dinah expects that he’ll throw her off, but instead slow applause from behind her catches them all off-guard.

Dinah wheels and finds a man who must, _must_ be Ra’s al Ghul. Save the lack of red and gold on his shoulder, he is dressed identically to every other assassin in the villa. But the aura of power, of _command_ around him is unmistakable.

Soraya confirms her suspicions with a cry of “Jeddy!” as she leaps off her brother’s chest and sprints to her grandfather’s arms. Ra’s catches her with a booming laugh.

“Well done, Al Ameerah,” he praises. “Someone has been watching her mother very closely.” He looks to Sara when he says that. “You must get a little higher, though, at the neck, for the full take down. And _what_ are you wearing?”

He has carried her over to the rest of the group. Rocket squirms in Dinah’s arms.

“And well fought, too, Faris. You’d have turned the tables in moments. You will continue to help Taer al-Asfer in teaching her that move.”

“Yes, Ra’s al Ghul,” Damian says obediently, beaming when his grandfather puts a hand to his shoulder, Soraya still in his arms.

Ra’s speaks to Nyssa and Azra in Arabic, an affectionate hand tugging on Azra’s braid.

“You have developed your own shadow, at least on the battlefield, Taer al-Asfer,” he says to Sara, warmly.

“At least one of them likes the bo,” Sara says, wryly, and Ra’s al Ghul _smiles_ at her.

Dinah has to be honest: the interaction between her daughter and her de facto father-in-law makes her a little queasy. Sara, she must face once again, has fully chosen and embraced every part of this life. She _earned_ her position as a favorite of the man they call the Head of the Demon.

“This is your mother?” he asks, turning around to face Dinah. “The children’s ‘Grandma’?”

“It is,” Sara answers.

“I apologize for imposing upon your visit, Professor, and at the time of such a holy festival. I did bring gifts, in the tradition. You see, our grandson has just passed a milestone in _our_ traditions, and I wished to commend him.”

Damian beams brighter as Ra’s approaches her.

Dinah knows about the milestone. Sara had already told her, conflicted over Damian’s stubborn silence surrounding the event.

“There is no imposition. I am honored,” Dinah carefully picks the proper word, “To finally meet you.”

Ra’s al Ghul extends his hand, and Dinah wonders, in a flash, if she is supposed to bow or curtsey, or kiss his ring, but she decides to just shake his hand. He is not her king or god or whatever, and in the realm they share, grandchildren, they are equals. Ra’s keeps smiling and returns the handshake.

“You do me the honor, Professor.” He releases her hand and pets Rocket’s ears. The dog’s tail wags happily. “You look as well as ever, Sarookh.”

The dog licks his hand, and Dinah almost laughs. Ra’s al Ghul _does_. Then he turns back to the yard and sets Soraya down.

“Back to work, Al Ameerah. What do you think? Should I spar your mama?”

“Yes!”

 

***

 

“Did you know he was coming?” Sara asks lowly as Ra’s leads the children and her mother off to dinner.

“Not at all,” Nyssa admits.

“At least he brought gifts,” Sara says.

Nyssa laughs.

“You have yet to finish your Christmas wrapping, habibti.”

“Ughhhhh.”

Nyssa chuckles and lays an affectionate hand on Sara’s scapula.

“Will you-“ Sara starts.

“No. And don’t pout. It won’t work.”

“But you _love_ me,” Sara begins to do just that.

“Your holiday, your responsibility.”

“Fine. But don’t pretend you don’t love Christmas. Rizzo the Rat makes you laugh _every time_. Oh hey, do you think your father is going to like _The Muppet Christmas Carol_?”

“It is a rather faithful adaptation of the source material.”

Sara’s laugh echoes down the hallway.

 

***

 

Wrapped up in Christmas carols, festive cookies, and traditional holiday spirit though the villa may be, it is still, undeniably, a sub-tropical paradise.

Which means, of course, Christmas Eve morning is spent on the beach.

Ra’s and Nyssa are meeting in the study (with Azra, _of course_ , and Sara can just imagine her little girl intently studying her mother and grandfather’s every word and action). They should be done soon, though, and however grumpy she may be with her, Sara is very much looking forward to Nyssa joining them in _that_ red swimsuit. Or the black one, or the brown one, or the…

Anyway, her mom, in full floppy hat and flow-y cover-up get-up, jumps, with Soraya ( _finally_ changed out of that elf costume) in the waves, as Damian body-surfs a little further out.

It’s certainly not quite the Christmas Sara was anticipating, but this morning she did walk in on Rocket, Soraya, Azra, her mother, and _Ra’s al Ghul_ all in stitches over the movie _Elf_. That basically made her entire holiday. Plus, she totally wheedled Nyssa into helping her finish up all the Christmas wrapping last night.

Damian jogs out of the water and drops onto the sand next to her. He doesn’t say anything, just starts casually building a sandcastle at her side. Finally, he speaks:

“It, um.” He clears his throat, calms his squeaky, adolescent voice. “It was fine? Um, Marrakech, I mean.”

Sara makes herself keep sifting through the sand.

“Fine?” she asks, hoping she doesn’t sound too eager.

“Yeah. Khala, Fahd al-Rasadat, and I, we tracked this guy, mid-level arms dealer, for about three days. I, uh, I actually figured out the best place to take him out. Khala hit him with an arrow at fifty paces, crowded market. He dropped fast. And it was… our job?”

He dusts off the top of his castle, finally, tentatively, meeting her eyes.

“You’re not mad, are you?”

“What?!”

It bursts out of her, unmodulated.

“Cause I don’t feel… guilty. Or, or, torn up?”

“Damian,” Sara gapes.

“Like, you keep looking at me like I’m gonna break or explode, like going on a mission was this huge… Thing. But it wasn’t! It’s… it’s everything I trained for. And I didn’t even loose the arrow. It wasn’t even particularly dangerous. And I… Do you think I’m… messed up, for not being messed up?”

“D, I - “

“Ra’s al Ghul weighed this man and found him lacking. I’m proud to play a role in his death, not guilty,” Damian defends.

“Oh, Damian,” Sara sighs, reaching and enveloping him in a sandy, embarrassing hug. “I am _not_ mad. Not at all.”

“But you were so… _weird_ before I left,” Damian says, muffled by her shoulder. “And since we got back. _So weird_.”

Sara laughs, bringing a hand to his head and holding him tight.

“I’m so sorry, D. I was just… worried.”

Damian lets her hold him a few seconds longer, then pulls away. His canary pendant rests against his chest.

“Worried? Mom, I was with Khala and Fahd al-Rasadat the _whole_ time. And I can handle myself.”

He puffs up with teenage bravado, and Sara barely stops herself from rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, so? I worry about Khala whenever she is away from me, and believe me, she can ‘handle herself’ even better than you.”

Damian blushes a little.

“You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Sara pfts. “Look, your first mission _is_ a big deal. It is for everyone in the League. And everyone reacts differently. I’m glad you’re not ‘torn up’ about it, but it’d also be okay if you were. Or if you are in the future. You know I have a complicated relationship with killing, and you can always talk to me about it. In fact, _do_. You _not_ talking to me was also ‘weird’.”

Damian sighs and brushes hair from his eyes.

“Fine. You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Sara repeats. “I love you, weirdo.”

“I love you, too, weirdo.”

“And I’m proud of you.”

“Gross.”

“Now I’m gonna have to throw you in the water.”

“Gotta catch me first.”

 

***

 

With new plaid Christmas pjs, the kids have been shuttled off to bed, visions of sugarplums in their heads and Muppet quotes on their lips. Ra’s had, in fact, liked _The Muppet Christmas Carol_. He and her mom, now bosom buddies, have retired to one of the verandas with tea to discuss Dinah’s work. It’s too weird for Sara to focus on right this second.

So Nyssa and Sara have been left to “play Santa” in their main indoor living space alone. Sara fills stockings while Nyssa stacks and organizes gifts under their gaudily decorated tree. (So much tinsel. Fire hazard amounts of tinsel.)

“Rizzo makes me laugh because he is not that different from you,” Nyssa says into the quiet.

“I _am_ here for the food,” Sara teases.

Nyssa has joined her at the stone mantle just as Sara throws the last bit of candy into Damian’s stocking. Sara looks up at her and smiles. She points above them.

“Our rafter mouse got her hands on some mistletoe. Fake, I think.”

“I should hope so. She is not allowed in the poison garden.”

Sara laughs and seems to catch Nyssa off guard by pulling her into a warm kiss. She gamely returns the kiss, though, hands drifting to Sara’s hips.

“Am I out of the dog cage, then?”

“The dog _house_ , Nyssa,” Sara laughs. “The dog house.”

Nyssa shrugs.

“Am I forgiven or has the power of the mistletoe compelled you?”

Sara laughs again, kisses her again.

“He told me about Marrakech,” she says when she pulls away again. Her fingers find the canary that rests against Nyssa’s collarbone, tracing it. “I guess I kinda freaked him out.”

“Ah.”

Nyssa leans forward, pressing a kiss to Sara’s forehead.

“Did you know?”

“I suspected. I offered him multiple opportunities to talk, but he did not take them. As his only signs of distress seemed to be centered around you, I did not think it my place to divulge any details to you.”

“I get it. It’s super annoying,” Sara notes, giving Nyssa a faux-reproachful look, “But I get it. You’re a good mom.”

“As are you.”

“Except for that whole giving our kid a complex, thing.”

“Stop,” Nyssa tsks. “I know what I have asked of you, this life, is at times difficult for you. Particularly with respect to the children.”

“I picked this,” Sara argues. “I believe in the work we’re doing.”

“And yet, it clashes, quite violently, with the morals you were raised with. I know that is a battle you still wage. It must be especially acute, that conflict, in the presence, or in the anticipation of it, of your mother.”

Damn. Nyssa knows her so well. Sara sighs.

“At least it’s not my dad who’s here.”

“Indeed. No other assassin retains such ties to her previous life. None other must look regularly into the eyes of the people who taught her their version of right and wrong. It is a line you walk admirably, habibti. That sets a worthy example for our children. And _that_ is why Damian has the mettle to stalk an enemy of the League in Marrakech with little internal conflict, and only two weeks later, sing along to Christmas movies with his sisters. That is all your doing. You are giving them the gift of both strength and childhood. And I am forever grateful.”

Sara feels the tears in her eyes and blames the mushiness on the holiday. Tiny Tim always gets to her, even (especially?) in frog puppet form. She fights the urge to make a joke and deflect, though.

“Thank you. _You_ made them strong, though. And in a way that has also let them keep the goofiness I gave them. Because their strength comes from how fiercely they love. Just like you.”

Sara kisses Nyssa before she can protest, then she says, just a breath away:

“Merry Christmas. Let’s go to bed.”

Nyssa nods her assent. Sara takes her hand and leads her away towards their bedroom. She pauses in the doorway and looks up.

“Oh good, you blocked the rafters.”

“She _will_ attempt to climb in tomorrow. I have also ordered guards posted at the windows.”

Sara laughs and wraps an arm around Nyssa’s waist.

“You are _such_ a good mom.”

 

***

 

fin


End file.
